


Intrigued

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dominance, Dubious Consent, M/M, Masochism, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sadism, in keeping with both ging and pariston as dreadful people, this is kind of dreadful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-02-08 20:34:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1955292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Ging can almost stand Pariston, when the other man isn’t talking." It takes a lot to hold Ging's attention. Pariston manages it, for a while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intrigued

Ging can almost stand Pariston, when the other man isn’t talking. He doesn’t blink enough, the darkness of his eyes is so deep they seem shallow again in comparison, impossible to make out any true intention other than shadows and unformed threats. But he has a nice face, all things considered. His eyes would be pretty, if they didn’t seem so full of secrets, and his features are regular and attractive, and he’s usually neatly dressed, or at least better than Ging.

Still. The main selling point at the moment is  _definitely_  that he’s got the other man’s cock in his mouth.

That technique might work for  _anyone_ , really. Ging hasn’t put much thought into the matter, tries not to think about Pariston when he doesn’t have the blond immediately in front of him. But he does right now. Pariston is on his knees and staring up at the other man’s face with curiosity behind his eyes even if his tongue is occupied, and in spite of Ging’s best efforts to resist the other is doing an  _excellent_  job of working him to full hardness.

“You’re good at this,” Ging observes. He doesn’t mean it as an insult -- it’s true, after all -- but Pariston’s eyes crinkle at the corners like he’s laughing at a joke, or maybe acknowledging a hit to his pride. He doesn’t pull away, though; if anything he comes in farther, slides his tongue hard against Ging’s length until the other man hums in appreciation. Pariston pulls back, wraps his fingers around the base of Ging’s length, and tips his head back like he’s about to say something.

“Nope.” Ging reaches out, closes his hand into a fist at the top of Pariston’s head and drags him in closer until he can rock forward and bump against the other man’s mouth. “Open your mouth, I don’t really want to listen to you talk.”

Pariston chuckles like Ging’s making a joke. He’s not, but the blond does part his lips and lets Ging thrust forward into his mouth, and it doesn’t much matter what Pariston does or doesn’t think. He’s done a good job of getting and holding Ging’s interest, which is a not inconsiderable achievement, in the end, and it’s been a while since physical gratification was anything other than an occasional chore for Ging.

He’s not sure, yet, what this is exactly. It’s certainly more interesting than jerking off alone, and that is a major point in its favor. And he likes the way the other man is watching him, the almost-taunt in his eyes even as Ging rocks forward to fuck his mouth. He’s not sure how Pariston can manage to look so certain of himself when Ging is even controlling the movement of his head, but the blond is pulling it off somehow, looking like this is all some culmination of a complex plan. Or maybe he’s just enjoying it. That would explain the expression and the pleasure both, the hum of satisfaction Ging can feel purring over his skin when he drags at the other man’s hair.

That doesn’t make a difference, either. Ging is good at using people, and if Pariston  _wants_  to be used, all the better for the both of them. When he pulls sharply sideways the blond groans in what sounds more like encouragement than protest, tips his head obediently and lets his hold go so he can brace himself on Ging’s hips. That gives Ging the opening he was waiting for, the opportunity to shove forward hard and quick enough Pariston doesn’t have time to pull back before the other man’s cock hits the back of his throat. All the intention in the world can’t overcome the instinctive recoil from the pain but Ging was expecting that, has a firm enough hold on Pariston’s tangled hair that the blond doesn’t go anywhere in spite of his choked squirming until Ging lets go, a moment after the blond stops fighting. Pariston pulls back, coughing and gasping, and Ging watches him consideringly. He could learn to really enjoy the blond, like this.

“This is fun,” he admits.

Pariston coughs once more, looks up at Ging with watering eyes. He can  _still_  manage a smile though, the same carefully politic smile Ging saw in the Zodiac meeting. Ging wonders what it would take to break the careful control under that smile. Maybe that is Pariston’s real smile. Ging doubts it. He can imagine something worse, rabid and bloody and vicious, something that would suit the other man far better than the deliberate obsequiousness of this expression, the face that doesn’t quite fit over his features, as if he’s wearing a mask that sits barely wrong when he moves.

He wonders what it would take, to get that mask to come off.

“May I speak?” Pariston asks. He’s mostly got his throat under control, though his voice is raw and rough now. It sounds better, too, bloodier, closer to reality and absent some of the uncanny discomfort of his usual mellifluous tone.

Ging waves a hand. “Sure. If you want to, go ahead.”

Pariston tips his head like he’s considering; then he shrugs, like he can’t really be bothered after all. Ging suspects he’s being mocked but doesn’t care enough to call him out, just leans back so he can bring his foot up to shove Pariston down sideways to the floor. The blond resists that no more than he’s resisted anything else, drops down do he’s lying on his back and staring up at Ging with endless patience in the shadows of his eyes.

“Take your clothes off,” Ging says, moving back to sit on the couch so he can watch the other while he idly strokes over himself. He’s still more curious than actively turned on, but curiosity is more than he’s achieved in a while, and it looks like pain alone won’t be enough to break Pariston apart into understandable pieces. That means it’ll take more, longer, maybe multiple days, and that  _is_  interesting, that keeps him hard enough that the touch of his fingers on himself is more for the pleasure than from necessity.

Ging hasn’t touched Pariston, and as far as he knows the other man hasn’t been doing anything but sucking on the other man’s cock, but the blond’s hard when he gets his pants open, appears to be entirely unselfconscious about his arousal even as he strips down to just skin. He’s pale with the pallor of someone who spends too much time indoors, in sharp contrast to the dark tan Ging has on the skin he regularly exposes; Pariston looks weak, pale and malleable like clay, and even though Ging is certain that’s not true his hands still tingle with the desire to mold.

“Hands and knees,” he says, pushing to his feet. Pariston is moving as soon as Ging speaks, turning over to brace himself on the floor and offer himself for the other man’s view. His utter lack of embarrassment is one of the more intriguing things Ging has seen from him so far; even when the other man comes in to kneel behind him, starts to suck on his fingers with no attempt to stay quiet, Pariston just drops down on his elbows to angle himself up even more explicitly, spreads his legs an inch wider as if to invite Ging to touch him. That brings the other man’s eyebrows up in spite of his best intention to be unimpressed, and when he reaches out with spit-slick fingers his skin is tingling  with heat even before he forces them inside Pariston. The blond’s head drops down, so low his hair brushes against the floor, and the sound he makes is more than just a little raw. He sounds like he’s growling or shuddering, pain or pleasure indistinguishable in the animal sound coming from his throat.

Ging doesn’t recognize the sound he makes himself at first. It’s not until he feels the vibration humming in his throat that he realizes he’s laughing, amusement blending with pleasure until he sounds sincerely delighted as he works Pariston open and listens to the blond groan into the floor from his fingers alone.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, more for the knowledge than from any attempt at stopping.

“ _Yes_ ,” Pariston says instantly, and there’s so much heat in that one world that it’s contagious, draws a shiver through Ging’s veins like an echo of the way the blond is shaking against the floor.

“Look at me,” Ging says without slowing the movement of his hand. Pariston hesitates at that -- Ging can see his hands form into fists as he considers refusing -- but then Ging pushes in harder, says “I won’t care,” and there is a flash of teeth as Pariston huffs a silent laugh and turns his head sideways. His hair is falling over his face, half-covering his expression, but Ging can see enough to see that the mask is gone like it was never there. Pariston’s eyes are wide and vicious, all the hidden threat rising to the surface like blood to broken skin, his teeth bared in what is more a snarl than a smile. He looks like the animal he has always been, fitting into the skin Ging could always half-see around him, and Ging sighs in relief and pulls his hand free.

“Better,” he says, and reaches out to close his hand on the back of Pariston’s head, turn his head forcibly down against the floor and shove so those teeth are controlled and out of danger while he spits into his palm and reaches down to stroke over himself. “Isn’t it easier to stop pretending?”

Pariston hisses wordlessly, shoves against the floor like he’s trying to break free, but either he’s not really trying or his lack of field experience leaves him at a major disadvantage to Ging’s greater strength. Whatever the reason, Ging’s hold doesn’t shift; the resistance is barely enough to interrupt the movement of his hand over himself. Pariston has relaxed against the floor again when Ging moves in behind him, lets his length go so he can steady the blond’s hips in case the other tries to move suddenly.

“Hold still,” he says, not really expecting the order to have any effect on the other’s behavior, and rocks forward to start pushing into the blond. Pariston jerks at the first inch but then goes still; Ging can hear him breathing loud and deliberate, like he’s trying to force himself to relax even while his knuckles go white from the force of his nails pressing in against his palms. Ging can feel the tension humming under Pariston’s skin, the other man’s body drawing tight around him before the blond forces an exhale and makes himself relax again.

Ging shifts his legs a little wider, stabilizes his balance so he can let the blond’s hip go. He’s leaned forward to keep holding Pariston’s head down, muffling the whimpering groans from the other’s throat against the floor, but that means he can keep his balance by leaning forward a little harder, freeing his other hand to reach around and close his fingers on Pariston’s cock. The blond jerks at the touch, whines like Ging’s holding a knife to his throat.

“This will help,” Ging says levelly, and strokes his hand over the other man’s length. Pariston’s hand unclenches, hits the floor with his flat palm so Ging can hear the crack of impact, and when Ging strokes over him again the blond moans so low in his chest Ging can feel it hum through his skin secondhand.

“Better,” Ging says rather than asks, and starts to stroke over Pariston in earnest. His hand falls into counterpoint with the thrust of his hips, draws a steady wave of moaning from the blond’s throat, and he stops any lingering attempt at care and thrusts forward into the other until he can feel Pariston starting to slide over the floor with each motion of his hips. Pariston is getting louder with each of Ging’s movements, his moans starting to sound more like wailing than pleasure, but that is as good as encouragement for Ging’s purposes, and from the way he can feel Pariston shaking it’s enough for the blond too. Ging’s breathing is starting to come a little quicker, pleasure just coming into view on his mental horizon, when Pariston gasps a breath and  _groans_  against the floor, and Ging is half-expecting the jerk of the other’s body as he comes over the other man’s hand.

“Good,” Ging says, letting Pariston go while he’s still shuddering with sensation. He lets the blond’s head go too, sets his hands on Pariston’s hips to hold him more-or-less in place so he can focus on chasing down his own satisfaction. It’s not particularly far off, but it takes long enough that Pariston starts whimpering again in pained overstimulation, comes up onto his hands in an effort to change his angle and decrease some of the friction of Ging moving in him. Ging doesn’t stop him; it doesn’t make much of a difference to him, after all, and he is still getting the satisfaction of Pariston’s audibly broken breathing. As long as he has that the rest of it is unimportant.

Pariston moans in encouragement when Ging’s movements start to fall out-of-rhythm, drops his head forward so his face is shadowed behind his hair. He’s biting his lip by the time Ging grunts and pulls him back once more, movements coming jerky and desperate as the flush of pleasure washes over him. Pariston gasps in relief in time with Ging’s own half-voiced groan of satisfaction; Ging’s fairly certain it’s the first and only time they have ever been in sync.

Pariston doesn’t move until Ging has pulled back and gotten to his feet. Then he rocks back on his heels, tips his head back so he can drag his hair back into place, and by the time he looks back up his mask is back in place, his smile is sharply polite and his eyes dark and inscrutable as they were.

Ging sighs, turns sideways so he can steps past the blond without actually touching him. “Are we done?”

“If you want to be done,” Pariston says from behind him. His voice is syrupy again, heavy and sweet and soothing so Ging can barely hear the rough edge of his raw throat.

“Yeah.” Ging starts to move down the hallway. “You can show yourself out.”

“What about tomorrow?” The question is louder, Pariston raising his voice until he’s almost shouting. He still sounds politely curious, not a trace of desperation in his voice in spite of the question.

“Okay,” Ging calls back before he shuts the door between himself and the blond. It’s barely any effort to agree. It’s convenient for now, and if he changes his mind tomorrow, well, commitments have never held him back before.


End file.
